Confessions Of A Laundry Goddess

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My Poetry Speaks

April 19, 2010

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In the stillness I can hear
It is in the quiet I listen
My heart hears the words
Others wish they could say
But they don’t have the voice
My poetry speaks for them

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Spun into Glory

“In the end, we'll all become stories.” Margaret Atwood Everyone wants to be the flower, not the vase molded from clay and bone. On the dark side of moonless vanity art is assigned to be a stage prop to adorn ego, and not speak the vision of muses. I am a vessel…the curved spin of eye and hand formed from earth and fallen stars…tangible grown from the unseen to be visible. My imperfections are the glory of a thumbprint no one else holds, the flame of a dreamer never extinguished. I am the keeper of life until the blossom succumbs to the wilted rest of a memory. ©Susie Clevenger 2021 The Sunday Muse #164

Dance of Leaf Flames

I dance with the dead, revel in the fallen splashes of color as they haunt the wind. Oak leaves that summer stained blue sky with paint brush leaves of green now fall in cascades of orange and red. Limbs stripped to their wooded bones speak of winter coming to frost night with sparkled shivers of dreams roaming indigo. Caught in swirls of leaf flames I feel my childhood open its door of wonder to memories of the oak cradling my secrets. Standing on sturdy roots I let them feed my spirit the power of resiliency to grow even in a world that seeks to mold me into something other than myself. Dear Oak, you mothered me when I had no voice. Taught me how to bend without breaking, find the song in my tears and find grace when smothered in drought. ©Susie Clevenger 2023 What's Going On? ~ The Tongues of Falling Trees

Melancholy is a Season Not a Sentence

It’s not just a feather but a wing note begging to be translated with eyes of ink that sees poetry before it’s written. It’s not just a thing left to be bruised by a footprint but a sign healing defies gravity. It’s not just a reminder of how much was lost but the voice of wind encouraging the spirit melancholy is a season not a sentence. It’s not just a plume but hope that waits patiently for you to remember you already know how to fly. ©Susie Clevenger 2024 What's Going On - Just a Cup of Tea

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